


You're The One That I Still Miss

by tebtosca



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Curses, F/M, Genderswap, Impregnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tebtosca/pseuds/tebtosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A curse sends Dean running to Stanford to hide out, but an unexpected life with Sam keeps him there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're The One That I Still Miss

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [THIS](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/62887.html?thread=19629223#t19629223) wonderful prompt at the spnkink-meme

Dean really fucking hates witches.

He doesn’t notice the change at first. He’s tired and hurting from where he got slammed into that damn doorframe, but even worse than that is the fact that he knows he’s going to have to call Dad in for back-up. So he doesn’t notice anything is different until he flops down onto the funky-looking motel bed and lands right on his brand new set of tits.

Yeah, tits. What in the _fuck?_

The first moments are of sheer panic. Staggering around the room, pressing suddenly slender and non-calloused hands against a foreign body made of peaks and valleys instead of ridges and plains. 

Then logic sets in, and Dean knows that it’s just that damn witch and her funny business, and he’ll call Dad or Caleb and have them laugh it up for a minute before coming to help him get this shit reversed. That calms him down enough to allow him to appreciate just how good his new body looks. After all, Dean’s a good-looking guy--if the word of the barmaids and diner waitresses of the Midwest is anything to go by--but one glance down at his new rack—tits, _shit_ , seriously?—is giving him a new appreciation for his own momentary hotness.

He heads to the bathroom to take in the rest of what he has to work with for the next twenty four hours at least, and contemplates a hot shower and a test drive of the goods. 

Then Dean looks in the mirror and sees the face of his mother staring back at him.

_Your Mom had freckles, too, boy. They’d get all dark in the summertime and she’d try to hide them with make-up but I’d rub it off every chance I got. She’d hit my hand but she’d be laughi--_

Dean blinks back sudden tears. Knows that he’s not going to be able to call Dad for help. That it wouldn’t be fair to anyone.

The first thing Dean does after throwing his guts up is to hack off the shoulder length blonde hair suddenly framing his face.

Later, much later, he’ll grow it back when Sam says he thinks longer hair would look pretty on him.

***

Dean knows he probably should go to Pastor Jim, just to lay low until he can assess the situation and figure out how to get the spell reversed. Jim’s a good man, won’t push him to call his Dad or put himself in an uncomfortable situation. 

Instead, Dean goes to Sam, and he’s not sure he’ll ever understand all the reasons why he makes that choice.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says when Sam pulls open the door of his apartment. It’s late November and the air in Palo Alto is chillier than Dean expected it to be. His nipples are hard under the leather of his jacket because of it, and it makes his cheeks flush a bit.

“Dean,” Sam breathes. It’s not a question, not an indictment. It’s just his name, simple and true, and Dean realizes it’s the first time he’s heard it since he sprang a uterus. 

He missed it, his name. Himself.

“You gonna let me in or let me turn into an Ice Pop?” 

Sam shakes his head like he’s getting himself out of a daze, and opens the door wide enough for Dean to slide through. Dean’s still getting used to how much space he _doesn’t_ currently take up, and to say it’s disorienting would be the fucking understatement of the century.

Dean wanders further into the space, taking in things in his peripheral like he’s been trained to do. Details can be a matter of life or death in the job, and a witch’s curse doesn’t negate that he’s damn good at what he does.

His eyes sweep back to Sam, who is standing a few feet away with a dumbstruck look on his face. He’s taller than the last time Dean saw him, a couple of inches at least, but his hair is still sticking up in that dumb way, and the curve of his brow shows he’s still thinking too damn hard. This version of Sam’s as foreign as Dean’s new body yet as familiar as the name he lost for a moment.

“Nice joint you’ve got here. Dorm living didn’t cut it, huh?” Dean says, going for nonchalance even as the higher pitch of his own voice is filling the empty space.

“My roommate, Brady, his parents got it for him, and he invited me along when he moved. Beats sharing a bathroom,” Sam answers, tucking his arms around his lanky frame in a protective gesture.

Dean flinches, thinks about the shitty motel bathrooms they’ve shared over the years, weak showers and broken locks and writing “Sammy Sucks!” into the steam on the mirror just to get a reaction.

A beat later, Sam finally asks. “So, you gonna tell me why you’re here and, more importantly, why the hell you’re _a girl?”_

“Fucking witches,” Dean replies, rolling his eyes for affect. Sam almost cracks a smile, and Dean grins. 

“It’s good to see you,” Sam says after a pause, and his voice is softer than it was the night he left, when everything was amplified and all the words he wanted to say got stuck in Dean’s chest. 

Dean swallows hard, gestures around the living room. “Sorry to show up like this, I know you got school and everything. I don’t want to mess things up.”

“It’s okay, school’s out for the holiday and Brady went home to his parents for the week.”

The holiday, right. Dean doesn’t usually remember things like Thanksgiving or Christmas. He can see it in Sam’s eyes that he’s thinking the exact same thing.

“I just need somewhere to lay low until I can figure out a reversal spell. I know I’m a dick for just appearing on your doorstep, but I can’t go to Dad looking like this.” Dean can feel his face turning red, but he’s not sure if it’s because he’s feeling uncomfortable mentioning Dad or the knowing look in Sam’s eyes that says he knows the reason that Dean can’t call him.

Sam comes towards him for the first time then, placing a hand on Dean’s arm. It looks so big, wrapping around Dean’s forearm in a way that it never would have been able to do before, even with Sam getting as gigantor as he is. It should be awkward, but it feels nice, safe. 

Dean releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Of course you can stay, Dean. You’re my brother.”

Dean looks up, up, up at Sam. “I want to be.”

There are a million different ways to interpret those words, so neither of them say anything more.

***

That first week is hard. 

Hard to remember the way they used to be able to communicate without words. Hard to recall the moment Sam stopped looking at Dean with awe and started just looking away instead. Hard not to say the word “Dad” without Sam acting like that's the real curse. 

Dean sleeps on the couch, on his back with his eyes glued to the ceiling throughout most of the nights. He keeps his boots on, just in case. He tucks his arms around himself, trying to ignore the curve of his breasts or how smooth his face is when he reaches up to scratch his cheek. He’s made calls to everyone he knows that he doesn’t think would insist on calling Dad, but nothing has panned out besides a few crude jokes about his manhood, or lack thereof. 

He tries not to look in the mirror too much.

Dad hasn’t called, and Dean doesn’t know whether he should be pissed or feel proud of the fact that he thinks Dean can handle his own shit. 

Dean can handle his own shit. He _can._

“Dean, you okay?” Sam says from the doorway. It’s two in the morning, and Sam’s face is creased with sleep, hair even messier than usual. His eyes are as soft as the t-shirt he’s wearing.

Dean can handle his own shit, but right now he doesn’t know if he wants to.

“Want to watch some shitty TV with your big brother?”

Dean sits up, makes space so Sam can flop down. Sam’s bare thigh is pressed against his own, and the heat is welcome. 

“Not looking so big right now,” Sam says with a smirk, grabbing at the remote control where it rests on the coffee table.

“Yeah, but my rack is better than yours.”

Dean tips his head back against the couch, closes his eyes, and lets himself really smile for the first time since Bobby Singer told him he’d have to think about this one for a while.

***

The roommate, Brady, gets back from his parents’ house in a noisy rush, all back pats and _“Sam, my friend, we have so much to talk about.”_ Dean lays low at first, wanting to get a read on the kid that got such close proximity to his brother. He’s a good-looking guy, all blond hair and California shine, and the intimate way he’s touching Sam’s shoulder makes something twist in Dean’s belly. Makes Dean want to march right out into the living room and growl “mine” at the pretentious fucker.

Sam’s not his, though. Hasn’t been his in a long time, if he ever was to begin with.

“Sam, we are partying tonight. The hot chick from my Statistics class is going to be there, and you’ll love her, I swear. Blonde hair, legs up to her chin,” Brady is telling Sam, gestures big and teeth as white as his obvious privilege.

“I’m off the market, B,” Sam replies and Dean freezes where he’s standing hidden by the doorway.

There’s silence for a moment and Dean takes it upon himself to fill it by sliding into the room, with the biggest, brightest Dean Winchester grin he can summon. He sticks his hand out to Brady, and tries to shrug off how weird it still is to see the thin wrist and long fingers attached to his own appendage.

“Hey, you must be Brady. Sam’s told me a lot about you. I’m Dee.”

Brady looks at Dean, and for a moment there, before he reaches out to shake “Dee’s” hand, Dean can see the calculation. The flicker of something that would normally make Dean’s instincts flare like a bull seeing red.

But then Sam slips his arm around Dean’s waist, and presses Dean into the warm bulk of his body. Dean can smell his soap, his natural scent, _Sam._ It’s halfway to a hug, and Dean hasn’t hugged his brother in a really fucking long time. He wants to bury himself in it, right here in front of this stranger with the oddness in his eyes, and it distracts him long enough to forget just what he was supposed to be looking for.

“Dee’s an old friend, and we reconnected lately and then her lease was up and, well…surprise?” Sam says, and the vibrations from his awkward laughter run through Dean’s chest, where his nipples are pressing against Sam’s ribs.

“So this is your…”

“Girlfriend,” Sam replies, and the answer is firm and unwavering and makes Dean want to run as much as it wants to make him cling desperately to the fabric of Sam’s shirt.

Brady smiles then, and it’s all teeth. His eyes are still focused on Dean when he murmurs. “Well, then, yes. I suppose you’ll work, too.”

***

They share a bed that night, and even though they’ve done it a million times before, it’s somehow completely different. Dean feels vulnerable like this, trapped in a body that’s not his own, with a future that the best hunters he knows can’t promise him. The days are ticking down until he’s going to _have_ to call Dad, and then there’s the estranged brother lying across from him who tucked him close and called him _girlfriend_ like it made all the sense in the world.

Dean wakes up that next morning to find Sam propped up on his elbow, staring down at him. His mouth is pulled into a straight line, and his expression is contemplative. 

Dean feels exposed, a little boy caught playing with his Dad’s shotgun. He wants to hide, but he just lies there and lets his brother look.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Sam says simply, and it’s like a knife to Dean’s gut.

Sam gets out of bed silently and gets ready for class. 

When he gets home later that day, Sam cleans up the bathroom mirror that is shattered all over the sink from where Dean smashed it. 

Dean lets him. Lets Sam bandage his bleeding hands. A kiss to the palm, like Dean did for him when Sam was young enough to still cry over things like cuts and scrapes.

They crawl into bed that night and sleep soundly.

***

Dean’s on the phone with Richie when Sam comes home from school a few days later. The guy’s a total douchebag, but Dean saved his ass from a succubus the previous year and desperation is calling. Dean keeps scrolling by Dad’s number, his thumb tapping the keys with indecision.

“C’mon, we need to go grocery shopping before we starve to death,” Sam says, and Dean watches his eyes track the phone as Dean goes to hang up. He throws his backpack down by the bed and blasts full-on dimples as temptation.

“Let me just call one more guy I know. I think he took out a coven last year—"

“It can wait until we’re home.”

Dean glances up at him, sees the rigid line of Sam’s shoulders. Wants to say to Sam “what can wait, Sam? The fact that I don’t have my goddamn dick anymore? The fact I’m still trying to figure out how my fucking limbs work? The fact that I don’t know how to deal with the way you look at me when I’m like this?”

“It’s just grocery shopping, Dean.”

Dean’s always had a rough time telling Sam ‘no.’

***

Brady drags them out to a local bar that Friday night, and Dean tells himself that it’ll be good to get out of the apartment for a change. They meet up with some of Sam’s friends from school, a guy name Luis and a hot blonde named Becky. Dean’s first instinct is to put on the charm since it’s been over a month since that red-headed bartender in Carson City and he’s itching for something that will make him forget.

It sucks, however, when he remembers what it is exactly that he’s trying to forget, when Becky doesn’t even blink at him but Luis and four other guys on the way in stare at his boobs instead of his face.

“Creepy fuckers,” he mutters to himself once they get safely to the bar. Sam is pressed close behind him, too close, and Dean tries to get some space by moving farther down the bar. He orders himself a beer, and gets one for Sam too, just in case his fake ID isn’t up to snuff. The female bartender winks at him, and Dean puffs out his chest a bit, feeling a little bit better about the situation.

It’s not long before Brady wrangles them a table and a few other people crowd around. Dean doesn’t bother getting their names, too wrapped up in the way Sam’s arm is flung so casually around his shoulders, the way Sam tells all of them that this is his “girlfriend, Dee,” like it’s natural. Like it’s not a fucking witch’s curse and incestuous as fuck and a goddamn _sin._

But it’s also strangely nice, sitting here like this, with Sam’s arm around his shoulders. Nice to listen to them yammer away about shitty professors and expensive books. Nice to have his back to the rest of the room without that voice in his head—Dad’s voice—telling him that he could get ambushed any second.

Dean leans his head back before realizing that it’s going to be resting on the broad line of Sam’s shoulder. He leaves it there even after he realizes, and tries not to notice when Sam turns his head just slightly enough to breathe in the scent of Dean’s hacked-off gold hair.

Becky looks at them and smiles, like she approves. 

It confuses Dean, but he’s too warm and tipsy to mind.

***

The first time Dean gets wet for his brother is the morning after the eleventh night they’ve spent sleeping in Sam’s big bed.

Dean wakes up to Sam spooning around him from behind, his erection grinding little circles into the curve of Dean’s ass as Sam breathes hot against his neck.

Sam’s asleep; Dean knows those dreamy little snuffles like he knows the shape of his own face.

_Well._

Dean lets Sam rub off against him, his face flushing bright from the sensation deep in the pit of his new sex. It’s the first time he’s felt this since the curse, this ache, the wetness. More foreign and obscene than anything about this entire experience. Worse yet, it’s because his baby brother is holding him tight and stroking one big hand over Dean’s smooth, flat, hairless belly.

Sam opens his mouth against Dean’s bare skin when he comes. Dean isn’t looking at him, can’t possibly make something like that _right_ in his head, but Dean knows Sam comes from the wetness spreading through two layers of meaningless cotton.

Dean realizes that Sam is awake when a pair of familiar lips is suddenly kissing the stubborn freckles on his shoulder, reverential and quiet. 

Dean bites down on his lip until it’s almost bloody, just so he can’t say something that neither of them will ever recover from. He doesn’t move though, and lets Sam kiss a path down his shoulder blades before he stills and tumbles back to sleep.

Dean lets the ache keep throbbing, as penance.

***

A week later, Dean gets himself a job behind the bar at the local pub they went to that first night out. He hasn’t heard anything back from Bobby and his skin is itching from being cooped up and not _doing_ anything. It was easy enough to swing; the manager Stevie said he could always use “another pretty girl” to keep the students happy, and Dean had to bite back his instinct to knock the asshole’s teeth out.

Sam seems overly pleased about the job, his eyes lighting up when Dean tells him about it.

“It’s just for a little bit, until I get this curse figured out,” Dean insists and Sam just smiles at him.

“Just for a little while, to help you out with the groceries,” Dean repeats, not sure who he’s trying to convince, Sam or himself.

The hot bartender from that first night, and his new co-worker, is named Julie. She’s a psych major, tight little body and streaked hair, with a tattoo of a butterfly right above her hip where her tank top rides up. She’s bisexual, openly so, and Dean thinks about it for a second. After all, he knows his way around the pussy, and Julie seems like she might be willing to help him test drive his new merchandise.

The thought doesn’t last long though, and a few nights into the job, Julie bumps Dean’s shoulder with a knowing smirk. “He’s a real catch you know, Dee. A-fucking-plus job landing that one.”

Dean looks up from where he’s rinsing glasses, not quite getting what Julie’s saying to him. “What do you mean?”

Julie rolls her eyes, pouring a shot of Patron out for a douchey frat looking guy at the bar. She turns back to Dean when she’s done. “Sam Winchester, duh. I swear I never thought I’d see that boy with a date.”

Dean wants to shrug it off, suddenly uncomfortable, but his curiosity gets the best of him. “Why would you say that? Sam seems like a social guy.”

“Oh yeah, don’t get me wrong, he’s awesome,” Julie says, hands up and waving. “But I always got the feeling he was pining for someone. Call it bartender intuition.”

Dean feels his face flush, and turns back to the sink. “Becky, maybe? She’s super hot.”

“Nah,” Julie says, leaning back against the bar next to Dean, her arms crossed. “No one that comes in here at least.” She looks pointedly at Dean, and Dean scopes her out in his peripheral. “He seems really happy when he’s around you, though. Like a different guy.”

Julie doesn’t know how right she is, about Sam being a different guy. Dean remembers a kid with scabby knees. A pre-teen who held up a book report with a big red ‘A’ on it like it was cooler than Dean’s pearl-handled revolver. A young man with dreams and a duffel bag who broke Dean’s heart.

Sam’s a different guy now. A guy who makes Dean feel safe by holding him and allowing him to feel alright with being small. A guy who is not afraid of the dark.

It took turning into a girl to make Dean a different guy as well.

***

The only time Dean ever had something inside him was when that smokin’ hot yoga instructor decided she liked sticking her fingers up his ass when she blew him. Dean didn’t argue because, hey, whatever feels good, right? He probably would have stood on his head and sucked his own dick for that chick because, _damn._

But this right here, Sam’s fingers inside of Dean’s pussy? This is something that Dean doesn’t even know how to fathom.

It’s another morning, a month since Dean showed up lost and female on Sam’s doorstep. They are spooned together in the same way they have been every night since Dean let his brother come all over his boxers. It had happened again a few times, neither of them breathing too hard or speaking, but every time Sam’s hand had headed south, Dean had gotten up and headed straight towards the bathroom to recover.

Dean doesn’t know why this morning is different. There’s still another hour before the alarm is going to ring, Sam is still heavy against him, his dick even heavier. Maybe it’s the way Sam whispers his name in Dean’s ear, tiny little echoes of “Dean, Dean, Dean” and Dean is so goddamn sick of everyone else calling him “Dee” that it’s like coming home.

“Go on, Sammy,” Dean says, the first time he’s spoken during these early morning sessions. 

Dean can feel Sam swallow, feels the length of his dick grow as he presses it to the cleft of Dean’s ass, and then under, until the warm shape of it is tucked against where the trail to Dean’s own dick should begin. 

Sam slides his hand down into Dean’s panties, and Dean doesn’t even want to think about the moment when he switched over to wearing them to begin with. Right now it doesn’t matter, just the feel of long, hard digits curving over the mound and dipping down, pressing in, searching and discovering and teaching Dean about all the secrets his new body holds.

Dean’s head is cradled in Sam’s other arm, and they share breath, their mouths not touching but close enough for the air to mingle in a way that feels even more intimate then Sam’s fingers stroking the wet walls of Dean’s cunt. 

Sam’s big thumb comes into play then, rough pad dragging the moisture up to slick Dean’s clit, tucked away in its protective little hood. That thumb plays music against Dean’s flesh, a song of longing and tension and love.

Someone’s moaning, and Dean’s surprised to find that it’s _him_. Orgasm rips through him then, in a shocking roar, and his vagina constricts around Sam’s fingers in a bruising grip. 

Dean is still twitching when his phone rings. He sits up with a startled gasp, his skin flushed and covered in goose-bumps. 

The tiny screen says “Dad.” Exactly thirty three days since he last talked to the man.

“Don’t answer it, Dean.”

Sam’s voice is pleading. Dean’s skin is still tingling from his touch.

Dean lies back down and kisses his brother for the first time.

Dad doesn’t bother leaving a voicemail.

***

They fuck for the first time on a normal Friday in the waning days of January. 

Dean will ask himself, later, down the line, why he didn’t actually tell anyone that he called for help that he was with Sam. Maybe he didn’t want to be found. Maybe he knew that it would come to this and he was ashamed. Maybe he wanted to protect Sam from the idea that someone— _Dad, Dad, Dad_ —would be able to come and pull him back into the life that Dean realizes he only tangentially misses.

“I’m a hunter,” Dean tells the face in the mirror that Friday morning. 

The face in the mirror doesn’t believe him anymore.

That night, Dean lets Sam kiss him so sweet, nibbling on the swell of Dean’s lower lip until it’s swollen and hot. Lets Sam lick down into the dip at the bottom of his throat until his tongue is pulling possessively at the peaks of Dean’s petal pink nipples. Sam’s teeth say “now” and the way that Dean tangles his hands in the shaggy chestnut of Sam’s hair agrees with him.

Sam licks him open, pushes Dean’s thighs apart with the meat of his shoulders and trails the point of his nose along the edges of his pussy until his entire face is covered with slick. Sam gets right in there, desperation threading into the way Sam’s tongue laps deeper and deeper inside of him. Dean wants to shush him, wants to put his hand on Sam’s heart and tell him that he’s doing so good and that Dean loves him so very much. 

Instead, Dean opens his legs wider and lets Sam suck on his clit until his first orgasm shakes him all over.

“I took care of everything,” Sam is saying then, and Dean has the wherewithal to look over and see Sam slicking a condom on his fucking monster of a dick. Sam has a strange look in his eyes, wild almost, and his cheeks are pink. 

“You trust me, right, Dean?” Sam says, his voice lower now.

Dean can’t respond to that because it seems futile to point out that Sam is his whole fucking world.

Sam slides into him so easily, Dean’s current equipment prepped with just the sheer physical nature of lust. Dean wraps slender arms around his brother’s neck, his eyes open so he can watch as Sam stares down at him with a type of awe that Dean never thought he’d see from him again. 

It’s intoxicating, this feeling, this depth of emotion. Dean doesn’t know if he deserves it, but he clings to it anyway, hitching his legs up to wrap long and possessive around Sam’s waist.

Sam snarls, almost baring his teeth as his strokes get harder and more intense. Dean urges him on, whispers _harder_ , that he won’t break, for Sam to fuck him like he means it. Dean clenches around him, tries to give as much as he can, until he finally just lets Sam take what he needs, pounding Dean into the mattress and rubbing his pelvis into Dean’s clit just enough for Dean to cry out with his own orgasm right before Sam releases into the overwhelmed latex.

“Stay with me, Dean,” Sam whispers into Dean’s open mouth, and Dean can’t bring himself to refuse him.

***

There are lots of things that Dean has faced in his life that once seemed impossible. 

Monsters are real. You’re a hero, dammit. Hey, Dean, your mother is dead. 

Eventually, he comes to term with them. He deals. He overcomes. He’s a Winchester.

_You’re pregnant with your brother’s fucking incest baby._

“It’s okay, Dean, I promise. It’ll all be okay,” Sam says, holding on to Dean even as Dean struggles to break free from his grasp. It’s moments like this when Dean hates the curse, hates the fact that Sam is so much bigger than him and can keep him here where he doesn’t fucking want to be.

“Let me go, goddamit, get the fuck offa me!” Dean gasps, hitting Sam with his fists anywhere he can reach.

Sam just holds him to his chest, Dean’s feet barely touching the ground as Sam rocks him like he’s a crying toddler. He’s whispering words in Dean’s ear and Dean doesn’t want to hear them. Dean wants to punch Sam in the face. Dean wants to get in his car and drive to the opposite end of the continent and fuck a string of waitresses blind with his own fucking dick. Dean wants to kill something, anything, hack off a head with a machete until supernatural goo spatters all over the stubble on his face. Dean wants to rewind time and pick up the phone when Dad’s name shows up on that tiny screen.

The fight goes out of Dean’s body and he slumps to the ground, Sam following alongside him and cradling Dean in his arms. Dean’s face is wet with his own tears, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s numb as Sam peppers kisses on his face, like he’s precious, like he’s special, like he’s not the most unholy thing he’s experienced since he was four-years-old.

“I love you, Dean. I’ve loved you my whole life,” Sam is saying, and the words cut through the fog in Dean’s head.

“I’m so happy that you’re here with me, that we’re building a life together.” Sam’s voice is full of wonder and hope.

“We can be normal together, Dean, you and me and the baby. We can be a real family.”

Dean starts choking, bile rising up in throat at the word “baby.” This can’t possibly be happening to him.

Sam’s petting his hair, rubbing soothing circles into Dean’s rib cage until the sharp brunt of nausea subsides. “You love me, right, Dean? Say you love me.”

“I love you, Sammy,” Dean croaks out, and he can’t help the words because it’s the truest thing he knows. 

Sam breathes against his neck, voice stuttering with relief. “You’re still _you,_ Dean. The shell doesn’t change that. I’d love you no matter what.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, just lets Sam hold him— _them_ —until the tears stop.

***

Dean hits his second trimester around the same time that Sam gets out of school for the year. The morning sickness is gone, thank God, and Dean’s feeling strangely healthy in a way that he hasn’t ever before. He’s eating better, less red meat and more of Sam’s stupid salads, and his nails and hair are shinier and stronger. Not something Dean ever thought he’d give a fuck about, but when Sam looks down at him and tells him how beautiful he is while wrapping strong arms around Dean’s waist…well, Dean’s only human and hormones are a _bitch._

He’s also realizing slowly that nothing aches on him. His hamstrings aren’t stinging brutally from running away from wendigos. His shoulder hasn’t been dislocated from being tossed against a wall in months. No one has called him a “sonovabitch” and cracked a bottle of Jack Daniels over his head in even longer. 

Dean’s body, if you take away the gender curse and incest baby, feels almost _normal_.

Sam likes to kiss where the skin is starting to stretch to make room for their child. Likes to lay Dean down on their bed, skin pale against the sheets, and just worship him. Sam loves him, Dean knows that much. For now, it’s enough. Maybe forever. None of them know what tomorrow will bring.

Dad stops calling. Dean wonders if he mourns for Dean like he mourns for Mom. If he ever mourns that way for Sam. Dean hopes that his baby won't have to mourn for anyone.

They go to the beach that summer. Get in the car and drive, one of Dean’s hands on the steering wheel and the other tucked tightly in Sam’s much larger one. Sam strokes that big thumb over Dean’s wrist, and Dean’s pulse remains calm and true.

Dean yells at Sam for getting sand in the Impala, but the water is warm, and Dean can feel his freckles darkening in the sun. He puts a hand against his belly and vows never to put make-up on them to try and cover them up. 

***

In the eighth month of his pregnancy and on the one year anniversary of the curse that brought him to this place, Dean Winchester looks in the mirror. His hair is long now, brushing his shoulders in pretty blonde waves. He pushes up his shirt and curves a hand around the swell of his belly. Only six more weeks to go until their latest day of reckoning arrives.

It’s still his mother’s face in the mirror, but this time, it’s his as well.


End file.
